The Fox-Faced Girl
by StarsOfMagic
Summary: "…Welcome, welcome, welcome. The time has come to select one young man and woman to have the honour of competing in the 74th Annual Hunger Games." Silence. Not one person in the crowd says a word. Then, as if on cue, one of the fox mutts that guard District Five's border lets out a bone chilling howl. I am Finch, the girl tribute from District Five, and this is my story.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: HI! Hope you enjoy my newest fanfiction. I know foxes do not howl, but the ones that guard the district are genetically engineered to make warning sounds. So they do howl, and Foxface probably doesn't know any differently.**

**Please review! It would make my day - even if it's just "OK" or "Good" or "Terrible".**

**I don't own the Hunger Games. If I did, I would not be writing this.**

"…Welcome, welcome, welcome. The time has come to select one young man and woman to have the honour of competing in the 74th Annual Hunger Games."

Silence. Not one person in the crowd says a word.

Then, as if on cue, one of the fox mutts that guard District Five's border lets out a bone chilling howl.

I am Finch, the girl tribute from District Five, and this is my story.

As I watched Song's perfectly manicured hand grope around in that reaping ball, my stomach flips over itself.

I just have this gut feeling that something is going to happen – and it's not going to be good for me.

_Positive, Finch. Think positive_, I say to myself, biting my lip. Blood seeps out. I don't care.

I don't have any friends of family; no one else to worry about. I've only drawn Tessera once this year, as usual, because it's mandatory in the orphanage.

Eight slips of paper have my name on them. Eight chances at a direct path to my death.

Then as Song takes the piece of paper out, I feel sick. And I know, before she even reads the name.

"Finch."

That's it. No last name. Just "Finch".

It makes me feel even more of a nobody than before. I was found on the orphanage doorstep in a white crate – the kind of crate they use to transport food to the Capitol, I learnt in a food project at school. Then some bright spark in the orphanage decided on the name Finch and I've been stuck with it ever since.

There's some confusion in the crowd, since next to no one knows who I am. I swallow. This is it.

Trying not to show how damn nervous I am, I step forward. The other fifteen year olds turn to see which unlucky soul has been reaped. I focus on the pebbled path through the middle of the groups.

"Up you come! No need to be afraid!" Song's Capitol accent is squeaky enough to deafen someone, I'm sure. I've never heard anyone, even a Capitolite, speak in such a high tone. It's like a mouse being tortured.

I've reached the stairs. I can feel the eyes of the twelve year olds on me. Some I know from the orphanage; the younger kids were always friendlier than the ones my age.

Song beckons with bright pink nails. I've never, ever, seen her in anything other than pink. This year, she is wearing a fluorescent pink jumpsuit with a matching pair of clunky pink platform shoes. Her false eyelashes, at least three inches long, and the grotesque pink cat ears protruding from her pink hair, would make anyone want to throw up.

When I reach the stage, I feel a pair of sharp, long nails dig into my shoulder blade.

"Do we have any volunteers?"

Uh. I may need a hearing aid about now.

Far off in the distance, another fox mutt howls. The wind carries it above the ugly gray factories – and for a second time this reaping, everyone is silent.

Of course there aren't any volunteers.

"Righto then!" Song claps her hands cheerfully and trots (yes, I can only described the movement she makes in those shoes _trotting_) over to the boy's reaping ball.

"Vincent Lakes."

This kid is obviously well known, because just about every head in the thirteen year olds section turns to him. He has to be the smallest one there and looks about ten with black hair and dark olive skin. And he looks oddly familiar.

Once Vincent is up on stage, we shake hands and are escorted by the Peacekeepers into the Justice Building.

The Justice Building is a large cement thing with the Capitol's emblem hanging over a pair of tear shaped doors. It's very ugly – even in comparison to the electricity plants, which smell weird and have pools of disgusting liquid around them.

Inside, the whole place is decked out in blue. And everything, from the lamps to the tapestries to the seating and tables, is velvet.

The Peacekeepers lead us – I mean _force _us– into separate rooms off the main hall. There's one hour to say goodbye to our loved ones. One hour left in District Five.

I sit down on a velvet couch and run my fingers through the material. I wonder how many other female tributes have done the same over the years. The thought sends a slight shiver down my spine and I withdraw my hand.

A good fifteen minutes passes – me staring at the eagle emblem on the wall – until the door swings open. Of course, it's Ms Raven, the orphanage director. It's her duty to see us off. The last orphanage kid to be reaped was some guy called James Lothian. He was the first to be killed in the bloodbath.

Ms Raven coughs slightly, "Ahem. Miss… Finch," here she falters, used to calling girls by their second names, "It is my duty to… ahem… wish you good luck and issue a farewell. After all, if you do not return to District Five, you will no longer be in the custody of the orphanage."

If I don't return to District Five.

Suddenly, the fatality of my predicament dawns on me. I can't win – anyone would know that. I'm not pretty, strong, fast, or charming. No one in their right mind would sponsor me.

Raven coughs again. I wonder if she's really got a cold or if it's just something she does to fill in an awkward moment. Probably the latter.

A few uncomfortable moments pass before she realizes that I'm not going to say anything and gets to her feet and walks briskly from the room, leaving me alone.

Alone is all I ever was.

Alone is all I ever will be as I walk to my death.


	2. Chapter 2

Pressing my nose to the glass, I get a good last look at District Five. It may be ugly – all you can see from the train tracks is a mass of gray buildings – but you can't exactly blame me for missing it already.

The sound of a squeaky voice outside assaults my ears.

"Can I come iiiiin?"

I slide off the bed and make my way to the other side of my room on the train. As soon as I open the door, Song bounces in. Grinning with pearly white teeth, she turns to me,

"Isn't your room prettyyyy?" she says happily.

I shrug. It's OK. I still think they've overused the Capitol's emblem in the design. That eagle stares at you from bed hangings, wall tapestries, and vases on little tables. The carpet is a little too fluffy, and I've never seen carpet on a roof before. But I can't deny, it is luxurious.

"Just wait until you see the Capitol!" Song says excitedly.

I wonder why my annoying escort knocked on my door in the first place.

"And the fashion… soooo much better than you in Fiiiiive," continues Song, "I'm sure your wardrobe contains _heeeaps_."

I nod, not sure what to say. Suddenly, I am aware of the ground beneath my feet shaking. _Looks like this is goodbye, District Five._

Song tells me to be ready for dinner in an hour and trots away. I say a silent farewell to my home and sit down on my bed, thinking.

Of course, giving up is the easiest option. I'm not going to win, obviously. I wonder how big and hairy the newest career tributes are going to be. Guess that can wait until we watch the recaps after dinner.

"Don't you just loooooove cherry pie?"

I glance at Vincent, but he's staring at his soup, so it's hard to tell whether he's as annoyed with Song as I am. Across the table, our mentors, Joe and Elsabel, are eating quietly. Joe has his beer with him, as usual. He's not as bad as District Twelve's mentor – Hamish or Mitchell or whatever his name is – but he hasn't said a word for the entire meal. Elsabel, a woman in her early sixties who won the games by pure luck, is quiet too.

I wonder how she's survived, working with Song for who knows how many years.

"…Yes, the pie is… nice," Vincent's voice brings me back to earth. Song nods vigorously and grins like an idiot again.

I must say, the food _is _nice. Back at the orphanage, all we had was spoiled fish from District Four, usually mashed up with soy sauce to cover the rotting smell. Most of the other kids puked it up afterwards, but I had my own way of eating edible stuff. Nurse Trixy usually has to deal with the smaller kids during dinner, leaving her more substantial food unprotected. I didn't take much – a handful of chips here, a few pieces of chicken there – but soon my stealing built up.

If I saw another kid with something – well, let's just say it would go missing within the following day. I was silent, fast, and undetectable. The orphanage's own fox mutt.

Obviously, people in the Capitol have never had to steal in their lives. Never missed a meal. Never been without electricity. Never-

"How about we watch the recaps now?" asks Elsabeth. She has a louder voice than I expected, "size up the other tributes."

Vincent, Joe, and I nod, and Song squeals a yes.

It starts with District One. They're pretty much average for kids from One – both with stupid names. Marvel and Glimmer. The parents over there must have brain damage.

District Two look pretty formidable; the giant Cato, a ruthless killing machine, and Clove, who walks up with a sly, sadistic smile on her face. Marina and Fin from Four are oddly un-Career looking. Our own reaping is pretty forgettable. Six, seven, eight, nine, and ten are too.

"I pity eleven and twelve," drawls Joe, "how many victors have they had? Five, altogether?"

Song laughs. I decide I don't like Joe.

Eleven is actually quite disturbing. A twelve year old, Rue, gets called up first. Her district partner, Thresh, is bigger than Cato, and looks like he could do a bit of damage too.

"Here comes Twelve," says Song unenthusiastically.

"Ahh. Knew their mentor," slurs Joe, "Haymitch."

Haymitch. That's his name. Right on cue, he stumbles on stage. I wonder why these victors let themselves go to waste. I watch as Haymitch hugs the escort and Song bursts into high-pitched laughter.

"Oh poor _Effie_!" she squeaks, "She looks mortified!"

I don't get why she finds this funny. District Twelve's reaping is always like this.

I'm zoning out as the female tribute, a twelve year old, is chosen. The second one. I can just imagine the games commentator, Claudius Templesmith, commenting on what an interesting bunch they are this ye-

"I volunteer!"

My eyes widen as I hear the word. Song and Elsabeth gasp. Vincent stares. Joe giggles and upends the bottle over his head.

Never have District Twelve _ever _had a volunteer.

This sure is an interesting bunch of tributes.

After the male tribute is selected, the reapings end. I think everyone is lost for words.

"Well," says Song finally, "I think it's tiiiiiiime for bed. Don't you thiiiiink?"

I didn't sleep at all the following night.


	3. Chapter 3

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"Red heads look so divine in blue!" shrieks some blue-haired woman, Julei.

I've always wondered how the tributes get to be so hairless, glowing, and healthy-looking before the games. The Remake Centre is my answer – and I've just gone through an hour of pure hell. My hair was inserted in this strange machine to rid it of tangles and wash it instantly, my arms and legs were removed of any hair, and about ten different perfumed sprays were blown at me.

My prep team, Julya, Glorya, and Arnei, are currently debating what my costume will be for the parade. We've been going in shapeless metal things, electricity generators, for as long as I can remember. It always looks hideous, and on some years, when it's particularly worse, we're the laughing stock of Panem.

Some districts have it just as worse, though. Twelve usually have to be miners, Four as fish, Ten as cows and pigs, and Seven as trees – every year. I'm just hoping I'll be able to get out of my costume.

"Yes, but the color blue has nothing to do with electricity generators," Glorya points out. As far as I can tell, Glorya and Julya are twins, but they couldn't look more different. Julya is wearing completely white – contact lenses, bleached hair, powdered face, shoes. Glorya is much taller, and dressed in anything sparkly and sequined. Arnei has settled for green hair that's standing on end and must be about three feet tall. They could be aliens for all I know.

"Maybe it'll be the makeup?" says Arnei. He has a raspy, menacing voice that gives me goose bumps.

Julya lets out a high pitched giggle, her arms flailing bizarrely. She knocks a small vial of pink dye from a shelf behind her, unknowingly staining her backside fuchsia.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arnei! Blue makeup is SO last season!"

"So is pink dye on your bottom," I say under my breath.

"Anyway," says Julya, "who knows? Maybe this year will be something different."

"You wouldn't know the word "different" from the word "pterodactyl"," says Glorya. She's seems proud of herself for saying the word "pterodactyl".

I roll my eyes. Stupid Capitolites.

Glorya continues her assault, "You haven't changed your white colors in years. I don't know _how _you're still- oh my! Is that a new trend!?"

She's pointing excitedly at Julya's bum.

"What-"Julya catches sight of them staring at her backside and screeches in indignation, "stop staring at my-!"

"Finch," the doors opens and my stylist comes in. My heart sinks. It's the same stylist as last year, and the year before, and the year before – Arielle Caylore.

Guess I'll be wearing the electricity generator this year.

"I've been thinking of some designs for your costume," she drawls, "why don't we discuss it over lunch."

I put on my robe and Arielle leads me briskly down the corridor. After waving her hand underneath some kind of sensor, the door swings open and we step into the room beyond. One wall is completely glass, and the other three are bare. A green leather lounge in a strange S shape swirls around the room.

Throughout lunch, Arielle goes on about her plans for our costumes. I really don't know how she can talk about the same thing for the entire time. Instead I focus on the food – a rich chocolate cake with orange and mango flavoured caramel oozing from the centre. At the orphanage, I rarely had anything sweet. Even then, it was a few crumbs of dry lemon tart that was left on Nurse Trixy's plate. This cake is _heaven _compared to that.

After lunch, the prep team (minus Julya, as the stylists are allowed to leave in case of personal emergencies) does my makeup, a light trace of blush, mascara, and lip gloss. Then Arnei mentions blue makeup and he and Glorya get into a huge argument about it.

I'm actually surprised when Arielle shows me my costume. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. Yes, it's metal and weird looking, but it's not lumpy or too heavy.

I'm dressed in a pair of silver boots and marched outside, where Vincent and his stylist are waiting. As it is every year, we're dressed the same – except my costume is a few sizes larger. Arielle and the other stylist push us into as elevator and we zoom off to the bottom of the Remake Centre.

When we arrive, I realise it's essentially a giant stable. Carriages with tributes in them are stationed around the room. We walk past District Two – dressed as gladiators – and make our way to our own carriage, pulled by gray horses. Apparently, they're so well-trained that they can guide themselves around the city. I wonder how they were trained. Did they get information put into their brains by those Capitol machines? Or were they just painstakingly led around the streets?

I glance over at District Twelve, which I haven't really spared a thought to since the reaping recaps. I'm pretty sure the girl was the one that volunteered, so I watch her closely. She doesn't look like much of a threat. I just wish I'd been listening better during the reapings.

My thoughts are cut off as Arielle pulls Vincent and me onto the carriage and instructs us on how to sit. I pretend I'm listening as I watch the wall slide open, and the crowded city streets revealed. It's time.

District One rolls out into the streets, the tributes painted silver and dressed in jewelled tunics. I bet they'll be a trend in the Capitol soon; One are always favorites.

The crowd roars loudly for District Two and less so for District Three. Then it's District Four's gone and we're on the streets.

I can vaguely see flashes of bright lights in the audience. Journalists scrambling to shoot a picture of the next carriage. Sponsors scrutinizing us. But it's all a blur. Everything's much too loud.

Vincent taps my arm. "Wave!" he says, but it's so quiet next to the crowd that I have difficulty understanding it.

"Wave at them!"

Oh, wave. I guess I should've figured that out earlier. I waved to the crowd, and for a second, I see my face on one of the big screens suspended over the crowd. But then it flits away and is replaced by another image. The audience's cheers suddenly double.

District Twelve is on fire.

No, literally. Their capes are on fire. How is this possible? How have they not been burnt to crisps by now?

The crowd is absolutely captivated, and, for a moment, I am too. For once, District Twelve is the shining star of Panem.

Then this realisation causes me to crash back down to earth. Of course District Five can't win now. As I had told myself back in the Justice Building.

Thinking about it gives me the urge to cry.

No, no, no, Finch! You haven't cried since you were reaped! Don't go there!

Then, for a second, the cameras move to District Two. Both tributes look absolutely furious. I can just imagine them plotting a sticky end for Twelve. I recover, and resume my nervous waving to the crowd.

When finally we get to the City Circle, we stop outside President Snow's mansion. I look around and see hundred of silhouettes in the windows of the buildings that line the Circle.

Then the audience roars as President Snow steps out onto his balcony and addresses the tributes. He's a small, thin, man – but small, round black eyes give you a sense that he's not to be messed with.

"Welcome, welcome," he says, flashing a toothy, slightly sly grin at the camera, "tributes, we welcome you."

His hair is paper white. I wonder if he was ever styled by Julya. During the speech, the cameras always attempt to cut around to each pair of tributes, but I can see Twelve on the screen pretty much every time I look. Snow's speech finishes, the anthem plays, and we finally get some screen time. I can see my face – nervous and slightly green under the blush. I try to fix my face into an unconvincing smile.

It's hard, when you're sentenced to death.


End file.
